‘Well, that’s just it. It doesn’t make any sense. Hold on, I’ll fetch it.’ Matthew waited again, every second he did seemed like sand slipping through a timer on Becky’s life. Come on, Melanie, he willed her, hearing her shushing the baby as she moved around in the background.
‘It’s addressed to you,’ she said, finally coming back on. ‘She says something about none of it would have happened if she hadn’t been there and … Hang on, I’ll read it.’ Melanie paused, while Matthew supressed a sigh of frustration.
‘Here we go: If I hadn’t been there none of this would have happened. You were right. I’ve decided to go back.’ Melanie went on, reading from the note. ‘I have some stuff to do first though, so please don’t worry. Don’t worry? Honestly, you’d think she’d realise you’d be worried to death. Poor Becky will be out of her mind. Is Becky all right, Matthew? Only I was really concerned when Ashley told me—’
‘I’ll ring the care home,’ Matthew said quickly. ‘Thanks, Melanie. I’ll get back in touch as soon as I can.’
Avoiding the inevitable questions out of necessity, Matthew ended the call and immediately redialled. No Ashley at the care home, he learned. No sign of. Dammit! He dragged his collar loose, sucked air deep into his lungs, then cursed out loud and raced for his car.
Chapter Nineteen
Ashley wriggled through the downstairs loo window she’d prised open, manoeuvred herself down to the cistern and waited, and listened. It was as quiet as a grave. Shuddering, as though someone had tiptoed lightly over hers, she dropped to the floor, squeaked open the loo door, and then shot across the lounge area, one eye on the wide patio windows, as she went. She didn’t like those windows. She hadn’t slept a wink the night the bird had splattered itself against them. If it was a bird. Becky had said it was, but Ashley hadn’t been convinced, imagining it was zombies or something. She’d had nightmares about them ever since some of the kids at the care home had downloaded a zombie film, thinking they were being really cool. They weren’t cool. Nothing there was cool. Ashley wasn’t going back. Uh-uh, no way. She’d only told Matthew she was in hopes he wouldn’t get an attack of the guilts. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but definitely not back there. She’d just keep going, she supposed. She could steal enough to eat, she was good at that. She’d had to be, with no food in the cupboards and her mum passed out half the time.
She wasn’t going anywhere without her locket though, she’d decided. Heading for the stairs, she tried to ignore Emily chuntering on in her head, something about hiding under the bed, like that was a really intelligent idea. Ashley wasn’t going to sell the locket. Even if she needed the money, she’d made up her mind she wasn’t going to do that. She was going to keep it, her one keepsake of the only nice time she’d ever had in her life. She was going to take a photo, too. The one on Becky’s dressing table, of Matthew and Becky at their wedding. It was a nice photo. They were kissing, their lips lightly touching. Matthew’s mouth curved up at the corners in a smile. It suited him. He looked much more handsome and happy when he smiled, which he hadn’t done much of since Becky had gone, not surprisingly.
Ashley had heard him crying. She’d pretended she hadn’t, and Matthew hadn’t let on, but he had been. That time his policeman-friend Steve had called. Ashley recalled how Matthew had lied to him about where Becky was. He’d lied badly. Ashley had reckoned even his mate hadn’t really believed him. Matthew had looked choked when Steve had left. Really choked. Ashley hadn’t known what to do. She’d wanted to put her arms around him. Make things right for him, but she couldn’t, of course.
She’d watched him worriedly instead, wondered whether she should make tea or something, as if that could help. Matthew had looked desperate, like a caged animal, walking relentlessly round and around, back and forth, checking his mobile. He was breathing really heavily, Ashley remembered, when he’d gone upstairs. To shower he’d said, making sure to tell her to keep the front door locked. He had run the shower. Ashley had crept up and listened, and that was when she’d heard him catch a sob in his throat, and another, because his heart was breaking, Ashley knew. Matthew loved Becky. That much was obvious. They were right for each other. That was pretty obvious too. Ashley was pissed, yes, that suddenly what she’d hoped might be, that she might finally have a proper family, wouldn’t be, but she didn’t want Becky not to come home.
Pausing on the landing, Ashley felt like crying too, something she’d rarely done. She’d made up her mind there wasn’t any point a long time ago, knowing there was no one around who cared. Becky would have cared, she conceded. Ashley felt that funny sinking feeling in her chest again, the same feeling she’d had watching her mum leave for the last time.
She’d take the photo. Running her sleeve under her nose, Ashley nodded determinedly. And the locket. She’d grab some bottled water from the fridge and maybe a few biscuits, but that was all. Deciding an extra couple of jumpers might also be practical, Ashley was stuffing her rucksack when she heard it, a shuffling, snuffling sound down below, right outside the window. Shit! Ashley’s heart flipped in her chest. It couldn’t be Matthew. She made her way cautiously across the bedroom. She would have heard his car.
Visions of grey-faced, flesh-eating zombies or beady-eyed birds splatting against the window, Ashley crept warily towards it and peeked quickly out. Nothing, then, ‘Crap,’ she ducked as she heard it again. Her heart beating a steady drumbeat in her chest, Ashley risked another look after a second, and then almost wilted with relief, as her eyes lighted on the little stray dog she’d seen once before. It wasn’t much more than a puppy. Oh, no. Ashley squinted harder as it foraged around. The poor thing was limping.
‘Here boy,’ she called him. Then, realising he hadn’t heard, she reached for the latch, pushed the window open and called him again. ‘Hey, doggy, up here!’
‘Duh.’ Ashley rolled her eyes, as the dog gazed around, clearly too stupid to look up, then turned to grab up her rucksack, as it turned tail to go in the other direction.
She’d have to come back for the water and stuff, she decided, using the front door to exit faster than she’d entered. She’d have to give the dog some water, too, if she could catch up with the flipping thing. Obviously spooked by someone he couldn’t see calling him, he’d moved pretty fast, even with his dodgy paw.
Uh, oh. Reaching the spot where the dog had been foraging, Ashley ground to a halt. Blood, she noticed, crouching to examine the rich red droplets, which had fallen on discarded plasterboard debris. Fresh blood, which meant he could be badly injured. Brilliant. This was going to hinder her progress a bit. She didn’t want Matthew to catch her here. He’d be sure to take her straight to the flipping care home. Ashley chewed on her lip, debating whether to just take off. If she hadn’t come here today, she would never have known the dog was hurt, after all. In her heart, though, despite her nothing-can-touch-me image, Ashley knew she couldn’t just abandon him. Leave him to starve like she’d been left. She’d have to take him to a police station, she thought, setting off after the dog. Yeth, brilliant idea, Emily said in her head. And what are you going to do when they ask you where you live, hmm?
Good point. Ashley had to give her little sister that one. She’d tie him up outside a shop then. Someone would surely take him to a vet or a rescue centre.
‘Here boy!’ she called as she ran, feeling a bit panicky now. God, where is the dumb animal? Out of breath, Ashley stopped and took stock. She’d done the length and breadth of the field, flitted in and out of half-renovated properties, swinging barn doors and creaking hinges giving her the serious willies. No dog on site or in sight. Ashley glanced down, hoping against hope, given the sloshy mud, for signs of blood and realised her boots were caked in the stuff.
‘Wonderful,’ she muttered. Then, hearing her mobile beeping in her rucksack, she reached for it and scrolled warily through her messages.
Matthew. She’d guessed it might be.
Hell. So what did she tell him
? Where she was, she supposed. He’d only worry otherwise. He’d already got enough to worry about without worrying about her. She’d tell him she was here collecting her stuff and that she was going to see a friend. That’s what she’d do. That way, at least he’d know she was okay and she’d buy herself a little time.
Feeling a fat drop of rain plop on her head, Ashley glanced up at the gunmetal grey skies. God, it was desolate around here. And spooky. Not somewhere Ashley would fancy being out on her own when it got dark. At home, she quickly started keying her message, and then instinctively ducked, her heart skipping a beat, as a great fat crow cawed raucously above her.
‘Oooh, bloody thing,’ she muttered, scowling upwards, as she straightened up. She was about to resume texting when she found herself flailing forwards, physically winded, as something the weight of a WWE wrestler thudded into her back.
****
‘Small puncture, right arm,’ Nicky confirmed what Matthew had suspected.
‘A syringe, do you reckon?’
‘Almost definitely,’ Nicky supplied, ‘off the record, though, Matthew,’ she added, obviously not happy disclosing information over the phone before she’d completed her report.
‘The toxicology report?’ Matthew asked, though he didn’t need it. Michael Sullivan had been a supplier, a boozer, verging on an alcoholic eventually, but not a drug user. Small chance then he’d suddenly be injecting. The information Matthew already had was enough to carve another piece out of his soul. Patrick Sullivan had murdered his own father, at least two women to Matthew’s certain knowledge. The man’s wife was on the missing list. He had Becky, and Matthew had one aim in mind. Whatever the outcome for him, he was going to kill Sullivan. He’d wondered how he was going to find him, how he would find Becky. He’d thrown up until his stomach was raw, wondering where it would end. But, of course, it wouldn’t end, he’d realised, until Sullivan had proven whatever he had to. To do that, he needed Matthew’s full attention, ergo, he would need to keep Becky alive. Matthew tried to hold onto that hope. When Sullivan was ready, he would know where he was, Matthew had no doubt about that. He wouldn’t have the element of surprise, but what he would most definitely have, something Sullivan had sneeringly pointed out he’d lacked over the years, was the killer instinct. God willing, that might be surprise enough.
‘Tox report is being rushed through as we speak,’ Nicky assured him. ‘You must have friends in the right places.’
Davies, Matthew realised. It might have been better if he’d been there before now though, he couldn’t help thinking. ‘Cheers, Nicky.’ Finishing his call, Matthew turned his attention to his incoming texts: one from Davies, calling him back to the station, where he was presumably supposed to wait calmly while Sullivan tortured his wife. Matthew swallowed hard on that thought. There was another text from Melanie and … one from Ashley. Thank God.
At home, Matthew read, and furrowed his brow. He’d rung the care home again, prior to calling Nicky. Ashley certainly wasn’t there then.
****
The bitch had bit him! Left actual teeth marks! Examining the delicate flesh between his thumb and forefinger the little slut had almost bitten through, Patrick tightened his other arm around the writhing girl’s torso, and then winced as the sharp heel of her boot found its aim, landing him a vicious kick to his shin.
That was it. Now he was pissed. Using his damaged hand to clutch hold of her hair, he yanked her head back, cutting her screams short.
‘Keep still and shut the fuck up!’ he growled furiously in her ear. ‘Better,’ he said, as she relaxed some in his grasp. ‘Now, unless you want to end up decomposing flesh for the crows to pick over, you do exactly as I say, when I say, comprendre?’
She nodded, a slow gulp sliding down her exposed throat. Patrick felt a stirring of excitement, curiously heightened by the fact that the silly bint had practically disabled him.
‘The phone,’ he demanded.
Loosening her ineffectual grip on the arm he had wrapped around her, she fished her mobile from where she’d stuffed it down the front of her leggings, like Patrick wouldn’t have found it. Clearly she wasn’t the brain of Britain, this one.
‘Take the card out,’ he instructed. Allowing her enough movement of her head to see what she was doing, Patrick waited. Patiently, given they were out in the middle of a freaking field in the freezing cold.
Considerably patiently. He sighed and rolled his eyes, as she fiddled with the phone, finally managing to prise the SIM card free with a nail. She didn’t chew on them then, Patrick noticed approvingly. He couldn’t abide birds who gnawed on their fingernails, fidgeting and scratching while they did and usually needing their next fix. Doing it for effect half the time, thinking Patrick was a soft-touch and was going to provide it. Manipulators, the lot of them, he thought contemptuously.
‘Throw it,’ he said, as she held the card up, like he wanted to bloody well inspect it. ‘Then chuck the phone on the ground.’
‘Do it!’ he barked when she hesitated.
Jumping as if he’d poked her with a cattle-prod, she lobbed it. Not far, but far enough.
‘The phone,’ Patrick repeated tersely. Forced to expose his cashmere coat to the lashing rain, his patience was now wearing very thin.
Reluctantly, she dropped the phone.
Obviously, she was intelligent enough to realise it might be her best option then.
‘Obey instructions first time next time,’ he warned her. Then, weaving her hair tighter around his hand, he whirled around to face the phone.
‘Stamp on it,’ he said, giving her a shove forwards.
Again, she hesitated.
‘That was an instruction,’ Patrick growled.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered, not very ladylike, Patrick thought, then lifted her boot and trod on it.
‘Harder.’ Patrick gave her another shove.
She pulled in a breath—Patrick felt the brace through her shoulders, and then smashed her heel down hard on it, and then again. And again, grunting with the effort of it, as if she was taking her own frustration out on it. Feisty little thing, Patrick thought. Interesting.
‘That’ll do. I think you’ve killed it,’ he said, whirling her around again to go back in the direction he’d come from.
‘Walk,’ he said shortly.
Reaching up behind her, she attempted to loosen his grip on her hair.
‘Where’re you taking me?’
Patrick gave it another twist, for no particular reason, other than he didn’t like being questioned.
‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,’ he told her, ‘and only when I’ve given you permission. Keep moving.’
She was dragging her feet, deliberately trying his patience now. If she wasn’t careful, he’d drag her by her lovely silken hair through the mud and cow shit and be done with.
****
Matthew tried Ashley’s phone for a third time and got number unobtainable again. Dammit. He really didn’t need this. What had she been thinking, taking off from Melanie’s, pretending she was going back to the care home, when she would know he’d check up on her? Frustrated, he pulled over to the side of the road and tried a text. Seconds later, receiving a ‘message not delivered’ alert, Matthew closed his eyes, his heart plummeting further, if that were possible. What the bloody hell had happened? Had she had some kind of accident, which might explain why her phone had gone dead? But then, if she had arrived back at the home, surely someone would know something, have seen something? It just didn’t add up. Dragging his hands through his hair, Matthew realised he absolutely had to call it in. There was no way he could risk leaving Ashley out there, wandering about on her own.
Matthew half-dialled the station, then stopped, his thoughts jolting back to what Steve had been trying to say at the hospital. What Steve had said: ‘Home.’ He’d been desperate to try to communicate something to him. He’d also said … Oh, Christ … Matthew dropped his phone on
the dash and pulled out fast. Becky.
Chapter Twenty
‘Inside.’ The girl’s hair still twisted tightly around one hand Patrick unlocked the door with his other, heaved it open and shoved the girl inside. Ouch, he thought, as she lurched forwards and then fell heavily, grunting as she made contact with the ground. Served her right. Patrick had no particular axe to grind with her. He doubted Adams had formed any kind of deep emotional relationship with her in the time she’d been with him. Probably just fancied shagging her. She wasn’t bad looking.
Leaving the girl to spit straw and dust from her mouth, Patrick turned to lock the door. She really ought to learn some manners though, he mused, turning back. Effing and blinding all over the show and seemingly incapable of obeying a simple instruction, she was well out of hand. She should also realise that snooping around, poking her nose in where it wasn’t invited, could land her in serious trouble. No, Patrick had no particular use for her, other than maybe to remind the copper that he really shouldn’t allow minors in his charge to wander around on their own. Pretty, slim minors. He looked her leisurely over, as she rolled onto her back to scowl up at him, taking in her small, firm breasts, her long, sleek hair, the colour of rich ebony, and her eyes, like a frightened little fawn’s. Very interesting. He might just find a use for her after all.
‘It’s you!’ The girl’s scowl deepened, as she scraped her hair from her face, the fear in her eyes giving way to fury as she recognised him.
Patrick smiled, mildly amused. She looked as if she wanted to tear his eyes out. He’d like to see her try. He’d snap her wrists like two brittle twigs.
‘You don’t say,’ he drawled, glancing down at himself and then back to her livid little face.
‘What do you want?’ She shuffled backwards, as he took a step towards her. ‘Where’s Becky?’
‘For me to know and you to find out.’ Patrick smiled. Stroppy little thing, wasn’t she? A feisty little fawn, bound to put up a fight. He quite liked a challenge. He also knew one or two other people who might be interested in knocking the fight out of her: Hayes, for one, who would view her as profitable merchandise. She wouldn’t clear Patrick’s debt, but she’d fetch a few quid towards it. Along with the money Adams owed him, that should go some way to squaring things. Maybe he’d revise his plan to get rid of her a.s.a.p., keep her around awhile instead. Warming to the idea of amusing himself with her, Patrick considered his options, and then felt his anger rising afresh when he remembered he didn’t actually have that many options now he’d shot the copper’s little lapdog sidekick. Knowing now how serious he was, he doubted Adams had offered up any information to help with the formal investigation of the shooting, but not all coppers were as spineless as Adams. Patrick had covered his tracks the best he could, but the law would be all over this like rats down a sewer anyway. No, he didn’t have time for negotiations with Hayes. Patrick needed to finish up here and set sail for safe harbour pronto.
Death Sentence Page 20
